


A Morning Meal

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Series: Tending Goats and Picking Vegetables [4]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Babies, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietros wakes early one morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Morning Meal

Pietros wakes early one morning, before Barca. He lies still in the dim light and simply indulges in the pleasure of looking at his lover. At the lines on his face eased by sleep or deepened by age. At the twists of his hair falling over his shoulders, and the fraying ends that will need to be redone soon.  At the gentle rolling muscles of his back. At the tiny babe nestled safely in his arms.

They were not like that when he was asleep, he remembers. Some point in the night, Elissa had woken, and Barca had woken with her, scooped her in his arms, and taken her out of the room for a feeding, all before Pietros could so much as stir. He does that most every night; soldier’s instincts, he called them, drilled into him during childhood, honed mercilessly in adolescence, remaining through the years as a gladiator. He wakes at the slightest sound, and takes sleep in short bursts if he must. Mother’s instincts, Fulvia teased one morning when she visited, and Barca had looked stunned for a full thirty seconds before laughing out loud.

Pietros smiles to himself and reaches out, his longer fingers running feather-light over the girl’s hair. One black curl is growing longer than the rest. He twines it gently around his finger, and wonders why the gods saw fit to drop such a marvel into his lap. He thinks of his own mother, who saw her lover torn from grasp before he could be granted the title of husband, and was left telling stories of him to a boy sold to another ludus before he could become a man. He feels pity for her, but is humbly grateful to know that he will have the future she would have wished for him—or at least, as close as he can manage.

Elissa starts to squirm, and carefully he extracts her from Barca’s grasp. This does not wake him. Over the past few months, they have adjusted to sleeping with the babe in between them. They move little in the night, and always slowly and cautiously by instinct. She whimpers softly as Pietros stands, but he hushes her like he used to coo at the birds, and she settles. He rocks her slowly as they move into the kitchen, where he begins to prepare breakfast. Elissa has recently expressed a fondness for pears. He fetches several from a basket, along with honey for him and Barca, and balances her on his knee as he mashes her fruit. Barca can milk the goats when he wakes.

As he works, and then as he feeds Elissa, he starts to sing in a low voice. It is a song he has only learned recently, and in a tongue unfamiliar to him, so his voice wobbles uncertainly at times, but he has a better sense of tone than Barca. Barca’s grandmother used to sing it to him when he was a boy, though he has not told Pietros what it was about. Something other than blood and death, he had said, kissing his temple. A rare thing in his childhood. He has sworn that Elissa will not know of such things; no child of his will ever lay hand on steel. Pietros is familiar with the care of weapons, and thinks secretly that he would not mind passing on his knowledge—for protection and security, not killing. He has not brought this up yet, and perhaps he never will. Perhaps this is simply not the time.

After a few minutes, he hears padded footsteps, and turns to see Barca emerge from the bedroom. The sight of him is enough to make Pietros catch his breath, always. He has not yet dressed for the day, and he stands languidly as the beast he was once deemed—but now a beast at one with his surroundings, contentment radiating from every line of his body. He leans against the doorframe and smiles his small, crooked smile. Pietros smiles back at him, and returns his attention to Elissa.

There were days when Pietros could not stand to draw himself away from Barca’s side, because he was terrified of losing the gladiator’s approval, or because he felt the need to declare himself as undeniably _Barca’s_. Devoted to him. Under his protection. There were times when love, as beautiful as it was, felt dangerous and unknown and foreboding. Now, Pietros cradles his daughter in his arms and sits serene as Barca’s loving gaze washes over him like warmth, like sunlight, like the very air he breathes. He does not worry about earning Barca’s disapproval, because he understands that the warmth of such affection cannot be cooled. This is something else freedom has given him.

Freedom. Once, it was the only thing more frightening to him than love, but in this, Barca has proven right: his tongue has learned to savor the taste.


End file.
